


Incendier

by Gothams_Only_Wolf, pickleplum



Series: Adventures of the Afterlife [2]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Athene Noctua Verse, Blood and Injury, Fights, Gen, Logan Jones is an idiot, Yancy's Pissed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 02:10:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4082677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gothams_Only_Wolf/pseuds/Gothams_Only_Wolf, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pickleplum/pseuds/pickleplum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yancy's just trying to relax at a bar when an old nemesis steps in looking for a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incendier

**Author's Note:**

  * For [artificiallifecreator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/artificiallifecreator/gifts), [RoryKurago](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoryKurago/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Braids, Lorikeets, and Baby Girls](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3798952) by [artificiallifecreator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/artificiallifecreator/pseuds/artificiallifecreator), [RoryKurago](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoryKurago/pseuds/RoryKurago). 



> AHAHAHA. I thought I was done giving Logan Jones a beat-down but Yancy wasn't listening. 
> 
> This was heavily inspired by Chapter 7 of Braids, Lorikeets and Baby Girls. Shmoo and Rory are enablers, I tell you, enablers! 
> 
> Much thanks to pickleplum for getting Logan to play.

* * *

**-August 8, 2023; Anchorage Wall Bar-**

Yancy's just trying to relax after one of his crew nearly fell to his death. He's damn lucky Yancy was there to catch his line and Yancy's lucky the thick material of his gloves prevented rope burn. He doesn't want any attention, any trouble, or any congratulations.

The words are trite, meaningless, when one fall he couldn't prevent was his own brother's. 

Bar's cheerful, but it's quieter than most other places; mostly Wall workers and the families they have to take care of. 

Yancy keeps his distance from them. He has to, given that this isn't ... Well, he's figured out a few things. 

He's just about to take a sip of the scotch his crew got him (in thanks, no words necessary) when the air in the bar changes. It's tense and _sharp_ and— 

Only thing that could do that is the presence of PPDC. 

The people who build the Walls and the PPDC are constantly clashing. Brawls are common, but most people—not all, not by a long shot—do appreciate being saved from a giant monster. 

Yancy knocks back his drink and uses the motion to check exactly who's ruining a peaceful evening. He nearly chokes when he recognizes the face. 

Logan Jones.

Yancy thought he'd never see the _Vulcan Specter_ pilot again.

Yancy wishes he'd never seen the Aussie again.

Jones saunters towards the bar, head high and looking for something. Yancy knows exactly what it is, too; a fight. The idiot always wants a fight and now he's in Yancy's bar sniffing for blood in the water.

Part of Yancy wants to oblige him, but he's tired. So he keeps his head down like the rest of the crowd. 

And then Jones spots his lucky crewman. Yancy's stomach sinks.

The kid's been smiling for the last few hours because, well, he's alive. Of course, he'll probably be sick tomorrow because it'll hit him. 

Jones rolls right up to the kid, plucks the drink out of his hand, downs it in a gulp, slams the glass onto the bartop.

The crewman gapes like a fish.

Jones smirks, projects 'wanna make something of it?' clear as an arctic day.

"What the _fuck_ , man? Just who d'you think you are?"

"'m the guy who's gonna kick yer ass," drawls Jones.

The kid puffs up. "I'd like to see you try, you useless Corps fucker."

Yancy cringes. Nothing like near-death to make someone feel invincible, but, oh man, is this guy biting off more than he can chew.

Jones' grin turns feral and his eyes gleam. "Wanna do this right here, now, 'r do ye need t' get yer mum's permission first?" 

Fuck. Fuck. _**FUCK.**_

Yancy didn't want to see a fight or to be in one, but Jones isn't leaving him much choice. 

He cracks his neck, saunters over to Packert and yanks the kid off his seat before his punch makes it even halfway to Jones' face. Guess all that weightlifting in the dead of night has some use after all. 

"Packert," Yancy says with a tone that would do Maman proud, "you can't take this guy. Stand down." 

"But—" Damn pride; Yancy'll cure his crew of it eventually. 

"I said, _stand down_ ," he snarls this time, not in the mood to pander to stupidity. "This is one fight you don't need, kid." 

Packert hangs his head. "Yessir." Yancy sets him down in his own seat, knowing he'll follow them out. Everyone always does. 

"Are ye offerin' t' take his place, Becket?" Jones' leer sizes him up. "'r are ye too far gone t' put up a decent fight?" 

"Your Mama ever tell you that you need to pick on people your own size?" he fires back as he rolls up the sleeves of his sweater.

"My mum sent me away t' pick on people bigger'n me."

Yancy grinds his teeth and makes a come-here motion. "We do this outside. Bar's fucked up enough as is." 

Jones inclines his head toward the door. "After ye, Rain Man."

Yancy holds his tongue, coldly staring at the Ranger until his own lip curls into a sneer. He sweeps out of the bar and onto the flat patch of grass out out front that folks use for parking.

Jones, grinning wide enough to split his cheeks, comes out a moment later with a pair of pool cues, negligently tosses one to Yancy. 

He catches it and stabs it into the ground.

"Figure ye could use a handicap, all the time off ye've had," taunts Jones.

Yancy carefully stretches his muscles, watches Jones with a sharp gaze. 

Jones loosens up, watches Yancy. "'course, some 'a us've kept doing **real** work the last, what, three years now?"

A muscle in Yancy's jaw twitches.

Jones' expression sharpens. 

Fuck.

Here it comes; he's glad Raleigh's not here for this. 

"Think yer dear, departed brother would approve 'a yer new career?"

Yancy throws all restraint aside; Logan Jones will not walk away from this fight. 

He pulls up the cue, tilts his head to the side and smirks as he drops into one of the illegal la canne stances.

Jones takes a starting position. Yancy doesn't recognize it for a moment. Then it registers: Shaolin. Jones must've learned some new tricks from his friends, the Lin brothers.

Oh, Yancy's gonna have _**fun**_. 

Jones strikes first, cues cracking loudly like 'Dome bō staffs in the tense silence.Yancy ducks under the second strike and snaps his cue across the back of Jones' knee. Jones snarls, curses something colorful and Australian, connects with the small of Yancy's back, sending him staggering.

They trade blows back and forth, each strike more vicious than the last.

Dodge, parry, lash out with shtyk moves that aren't meant to bruise but have one hell of an impact. Impact from Jones, dodge under the second swipe, cut across Jones' ribs with a hefty —THWAP— before drumming the opposite thigh and finishing with the tip of the cue acting like a whip. 

Several strikes from Jones, quick and efficient as Yancy spins on the ball of his left foot to avoid the last one. He lands and swings the cue in a low arc, getting Logan to jump into the thick edge of the wood headed straight for his gut. That one earns Yancy a muffled curse in Canto. Good. 

They're both going to be _**seriously**_ black and blue.

Jones's better than he used to be.

Yancy grins and opts for more (and more) illegal moves, steadily forcing Jones onto the defensive.

Yancy loves every second until his cue splinters. He throws aside the pieces, brings his hands up to guard.

"Oopsie!" Jones singsongs, tapping his intact (though scuffed) cue against his shoulder. After a beat, he flashes a smile full of knives and tosses it to someone in the front rank of the gathered crowd. "This's more my style, anyway," he purrs, dropping into an MMA stance.

Yancy pushes into an escape roll, twisting to the side to avoid the chop directed at his shoulder. He finds his opening and seizes Jones' arm, somersaulting forward to avoid the counterstrike he knows is coming, wrenching against Jones' elbow.  
Jones _finally_ takes a deep breath as they step apart.

Yancy's panting.

Logan forces his forearm back into joint with a disgusting, loud **POP**. 

The crowd hisses and cringes in sympathy.

"Ye've gotten meaner, Rain Man. It's actually a fight this time."

"I forgot to mention, Jonesy boy, I held back before. There were rules then, ya sorry sack 'o shit, but there aren't anymore," Yancy mutters as he straightens the broken fingers on his non-dominant hand, wrapping them in the strip he tears from his sweater. "I get to have my way with you."

Jones raises his eyebrows, flexes the fingers on his injured arm. "Yer way? Sorry t' break it to ye, but—"

Yancy backs up a few steps, charges. 

Jones turns too slowly; Yancy lands a heavy kick directly to his chest, follows it with a spinning kick to the no-longer smug face. 

They both hit the ground, Jones with a pained grunt. Yancy scrambles upright, crouches—Jones grabs his left leg and yanks.

Down Yancy goes and it's a brawl now, no finesse at all. 

Yancy gets hit twice before he manages to block the third with his elbow. He slams his other elbow into Jones' head, hoping to disorient him. It works well enough for Yancy to reverse their positions, kneel on Jones' chest. Striking with his fists, he snarls when Jones tries to buck him off, slams his head against the ground.

Jones shouldn't be moving after that, but he squirms loose, rolls away, and _grins_ as he scrambles to his feet.

Why won't this guy go down and **stay** down?

There's a fierce, brief scrabble and Yancy winds up in a headlock he can't shake. He's starting to see stars when he finds Jones' forearm and shoves it up just far enough—He sinks his teeth into muscle and shakes his head like a rabid dog, the warm copper taste flooding his mouth. 

Jones howls and lets go.

Blood dribbles down Yancy's chin and spatters as he spits out a chunk of Jones. He sucks in lungfuls of warm summer air, climbs to his feet.

"Ye **_bit_** me! I ain't been bit since Year 6!"

"Choked me, asshole. What'd ... ya expect?" Yancy rasps before using Raleigh's gymnastics training to stretch his leg up and strike downward with a hapkido heel kick to Logan's jaw. 

There's a horrible —CRACK— and Jones' jaw moves like no jaw should.

Logan drops like a rag-doll.

Yancy barely catches him before his head hits the ground.

The legendary Jones endurance is apparently no match for the amount of pain Yancy's inflicted—a dislocated elbow, a deep bite, a few cracked ribs, a dislocated jaw. 

But Yancy's not _entirely_ heartless, so he pays for Jones' cab back to the 'Dome.

* * *

The intercom in Jackson's Icebox room chimes.

He sighs, gathers up his mountain of blankets and shuffles over, pokes 'receive'. "Yea. Jones."

""Ranger Jones, please report to Medical to collect your brother,"" announces a very annoyed British person who's almost certainly the Marshal.

Jackson doesn't sigh. "Yes, sir. Be there as soon as I kin." Stabs 'disconnect'. Grabs his coat and sets out across the Shatterdome.

Halfway there, he's had it with the hairy eyeballs he's getting from the locals.  
Yea, yea, yea, this's what passes for summer in this godforsaken place and he's wearing a parka, so fucking what?

He growls at the next person to look at him funny.

The tech squeaks, scuttles straight into a wall—Jackson snorts.—darts around a corner.

No one so much as glances at Jackson the rest of the walk.

Until he hits Medical's receiving area.

Then, he's getting the once-over from a coldly disappointed Marshal Pentecost. 

Jackson straightens, bobs his head, greets, "Marshal."

"You are not to let your brother out of your _sight_ the remainder of your stay on this base. Do I make myself clear, Ranger?" The man's not in the mood for anything but respect. 

"Crystal, sir."

Pentecost studies him a beat, marches out.

Jackson relaxes, rubs the back of his neck, peeks into the exam room.

Logan, wrapped in enough bandages to make a decent mummy costume, greets with a cheery thumbs up and bright eyes.

"Jesus." Jackson steps over to bedside. "Ye take a dive 'r something?"

A frown.

Plunks down in the chair. "Play in traffic?"

Still frowning.

Leans closer, whispers, "There're easier ways t' get outta a neural test, ye know."

Logan shrugs—winces.

Jackson sighs.

* * *

Neither Raleigh's crew nor the crews around him misbehave for a solid four months after his broken fingers heal.

**Author's Note:**

> Whew. Yancy's been kinda quiet but this proves he's still kicking (metaphorically). Comment, complain, ect.


End file.
